


How a Bill Becomes Law

by o0katiekins0o



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Crack, Mycroft is Ron Swanson, Parks and Rec AU, Post-TFP, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, lady smallwood is awesome, pawnee!Lock, sherlolly (background)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 17:33:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11833629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o0katiekins0o/pseuds/o0katiekins0o
Summary: Based on the episode of Parks and Recreation of the same name. This is a retelling of the Ron Swanson/Diane Lewis Meet-Cute from a Mycroft/Lady Smallwood perspective.You don't have to have watched the episode (or the show) to follow.





	How a Bill Becomes Law

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vonPeeps (BoodleBrown)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=vonPeeps+%28BoodleBrown%29), [broomclosetkink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/broomclosetkink/gifts).



> You may not know that I have a sideblog dedicated to my Parks and Rec AU for Sherlock called crimes-and-recreation. I haven't posted much to it recently but it's almost entirely Mycroft quoting Ron Swanson and, not to brag, it's hilarious. You should check it out. 
> 
> This work is dedicated to two of my favorite Pawneeans: Peeps and Broomy. 
> 
> I love you both so much.

The one text would not have been so suspect, Mycroft did not enjoy texting as a communication medium, he felt it lacked a certain dignity. So it would not have struck Sherlock as odd for his brother to receive and ignore a single text.

It was the previous two that had come through several minutes earlier that were damning.

The text alert chimed out, breaking the otherwise perfect silence of, yet another, Holmes brothers staring contest stroke ideological stalemate. They had become more frequent of late, tedious though they were, current circumstances demanded them.

It was the usual discourse, Mycroft throwing Sherlock’s emotional vulnerability in his face and Sherlock simply countering that his brother’s lack of human intimacy in any degree negated any alleged expertise on the subject.

He felt the moment his brother raised his bold brows from across the desk. Smirking casually he made to stand “If this is a bad time…”

“You know perfectly well it isn’t. Sit down.” He demanded, gesturing forcefully toward the nigh-abandoned chair.

And of course, since that was the moment Mycroft chose to assert his brotherly authority, that was the moment his SMS assailant chose to circumvent the convention of texting altogether to call- like a barbarian.  

Ugh, and his younger brother practically radiated smugness in that moment, settling in his chair out of challenge rather than obedience. ‘Your move.’ His eyes told him, chin balanced upon his upraised fingertips.

The ringtone pounded against the wall of Mycroft’s obsessive compulsion, shattering his bitter resolve and with a sigh he pulled the mobile from his jacket pocket to examine the number, and confirming his suspicion regarding the identity of his pursuer.  He wasted little time answering, although not without the prerequisite rolling of his eyes.

“Yes?” He spoke with his usual distant annoyance, aware of his brother’s witnessing gaze. No greetings or mawkish salutations, just a simple answer to indicate he was listening.

“Was the eyeroll really warranted, Mycroft?” Lady Smallwood responded.

His formerly rolling eyes widened momentarily before casting suspiciously about the room.

“What have I done to earn the honour of your surveillance, Lady Smallwood?” He asked, rather diplomatically, if you’d asked him.

She burst out with bright laughter, “I’m not having you surveilled, Mycroft. I just knew you’d roll your eyes.”

Sherlock’s grin broadened to something mad and Cheshire-like. Oh dear- he realized, I seem to be flushing. “Lady Smallwood, if you please, I’m rather busy.”

“Yes, you’ve got your brother at the office.”

“I thought you weren’t having me surveilled?”

“Text from Andrea, she mentioned you had a meeting in your office today. There are very few people you take in-person meetings with, even fewer inside your own office, so the odds were either, that DI chap, Dr. Watson, or your brother. See? Texting can be quite handy.”

“How did you know it was my brother?”

“What’s that thing you’re always saying...? Balance of probability.”

“And how could you be sure the meeting had not already concluded?”

There was a beat, hardly a pause at all, but long enough for Mycroft’s pulse to ramp up with anticipation of her answer.

Her smile was practically audible as she answered in a low almost-whisper. “Because you did not call me Alicia.”

“Did you actually just gulp?” asked expert ruiner of moments, Sherlock Holmes.

“Shut up.” Mycroft gritted through his teeth, covering the receiver with his open palm.

“You did though.” Sherlock jibed back in a stage whisper.

Mycroft stiffened. Resolving against his own exasperation, he gathers himself to ask, “What can I do for you Lady Smallwood?”

His brother seeming placated for the moment, now that the subject no longer interested him.

“I’m donating a few items from my husband’s estate, they need to be inspected and signed for.”

“That’s a matter for English Heritage…”

“I’ve attempted to meet with them four times.”

“Yes. Well. Government is inefficient and should be dissolved.” He pronounced with finality, “Good day, Lady Smallwood.”

“Back to that, are we?” She countered, completely ignoring his attempt to end the conversation. “I thought we’d settled on Alicia ages ago? Over drinks.”

Mycroft couldn’t hide a sputter, his hand reflexively going to the knot of his tie to discretely adjust it. Sherlock caught that, certainly. He didn’t have to look up to confirm. He’d have to be trying not to notice or back on the sauce, to be that completely blind.

“What can I do for you, Lady- Alicia…” He amended mid-sentence.

She was telling the truth.

One night after tense session of UN negotiations, and rather too much excellent brandy; He had in fact, intimated the belief that of her meandering list of family names, he believed ‘Alicia’ suited her best.

Like many people born into titles, with them she also carried a rather large collection of stuffy sounding names. And after the untimely death of the late Lord Smallwood, she was rather keen for a fresh start.

“You have authorization on every level of government, surely you could do something. I just…” her voice softened “I don’t want these paintings in my home anymore, Mycroft.”

Of course, from her husband’s collection, one of those sentiment things; Or actually, no. Her voice was soft, low, keeping quiet for someone else. Someone she doesn’t want knowing how the paintings make her feel, someone who would be heartbroken to know that it hurts her to see them.

Oh... It _hurts_ her to see them.

“Someone will be there shortly.” He said conclusively, ignoring her questioning voice as he rung off.

“Grab your coat, let’s go.”

One of Sherlock’s bold brows arced high in speculation, “Where are we going, _boss_?”

Mycroft took a fortifying breath, giving little acknowledgement to his younger brother’s perjorative use of the title as he donned his own coat and reached for his brolly, “We’re gonna go have a look at some paintings.”

He didn’t need to look back at his brother behind to know he was grinning like a lunatic as he rose feet to follow after him.

The car ride through the posh Belgravia residence was short, and blessedly silent. Sherlock seemed to have taken no time whatsoever resuming his tweeting/texting/faffing about with his mobile. He’d always been a hopeless twiddler, the advent of mobile phone technology only worsened it over time.

Armed with a contact list that included all of New Scotland Yard, Dr. Watson, the little pathologist, and several dozen of London’s finest tramps- the habit served many a purpose, which did not bode well for it ever abating. This time Mycroft did not act on his usual inclination to scold his younger brother, for once grateful for the attention deficit.

The driver slowed to a stop before a tastefully appointed home nestled in the centre of a row of homes equally appointed. However, the symmetry in the neighborhood’s aesthetic (Stark white, Corinthian columns, wide paned windows, small gardens enclosed in artful wrought iron gates) was marred slightly by the sight of a garishly pink plastic structure, nestled in a corner of the garden belonging to Lady Smallwood.

First one, then two taffeta-bedecked creatures popped out from inside the play house meeting them at the gate as they approached the home.

Children, Mycroft had never done well with them, even (perhaps especially) when he had been one himself. He paused, uncertain how to address them, however he was spared the need when his brother chose that moment to check back in, dropping his mobile in one of his massive pockets and grinning as they approached the gate.

“Hello, I’m Sherlock!” he began, “I really like your dresses.” His skill at feigning enthusiasm for childish inanities had improved greatly since the birth of the young Ms. Watson.

“I’m a princess.” The elder of the two spoke matter-of-factly. Given the home she was outside of and the family she was associated with, he would not have been surprised if she were being literal.

“I’m a mermaid.” The youngest chirruped from behind. _Or perhaps not._

“I’m the undersecretary for the Ministry of Defense.” Mycroft replied on reflex.

Upon that admission his brother slanted his eyes toward him, muttering in sidebar, “Is that what they’re calling you now?”

“Officially, yes.”

“Hm.”, Was his noncommittal acknowledgment.

Getting back to the subject at hand, Mycroft once again addressed their flouncy gatekeepers, “We’ve come to look at paintings belonging to Lady Smallwood, is she inside?”

“This is OUR kingdom.” The eldest asserted, backed by her tiny companion. “You have to ask permission.” She punctuated her mandate by crossing her arms firmly over her chest.

“Excuse me?” perhaps there was a bit more heat to his voice than appropriate for this particular audience, however his brother spared him yet another uncomfortable moment, diffusing the standoff by immediately going down on one knee. “Your highnesses” He dipped his head in a slight bow, “We doth humbly request thine permission to view yonder paintings.”

The two girls looked at one another, seeming to come to the same wordless conclusion.

“Only if you can catch us!”, then, as if someone had shot off a starter pistol, the disappeared around the corner of the home screeching playfully while the world’s only consulting detective hopped over the short grate and was at their heels in a few long strides shouting “Come here!”. Alright so perhaps the enthusiasm was not as feigned as originally estimated.

He sighed out, shaking his patrician head, regarding Lady Smallwood, no Alicia (they _had_ agreed) as she approached.

“Mycroft, I didn’t expect you’d come yourself. And with… company.” Very judiciously chosen words to describe a man who was presently pretending to be caught in some sort of quagmire when just in reach of the girls.

He gave a tight smile in response to her word choice, “It was clear that no one from the proper channels was coming.” He held out his hand in formality, she returned the offer with her own hand, holding his gently in no hurry to release it with a perfunctory shake.

Somehow he found himself lost in a moment with her. Maintaining eye contact had never been a struggle for Mycroft, he often used direct eye contact of a means of establishing a dominant position in negotiations, but he found hers suddenly unnerving. Something about it made him want to stand up straighter and smooth down the spit curl that always threatened to fall down his forehead.

The sound of a man-child pretending to be garroted by a child’s feather boa to the delight of the children present shattered any foolish thoughts that may have lingered.

“You remember my brother, Sherlock. He’s the large boy currently having pretend tea with your, forgive me for assuming, granddaughters.”

“Yes, those are my granddaughters, Zoey and Ivy. They’re with me while their parents are in Ibiza.” Her response was factual, unembellished. As if seeing not one, but two generations spring to fruition wasn’t one of the most unreal notions Mycroft could contrive.

“They look quite… viable.” He immediately regretted that word choice, but if she found it off-putting, he could not tell she just smiled and nodded once politely.

“Yes well… they’re a lively pair.” She agreed, showcasing her excessive skills of diplomacy by managing to address, yet also side-step, the awkwardly phrased attempt at a compliment.

Meanwhile, the girls had begun to decorate Sherlock with stickers, the little one, Ivy bestowing a pink plastic tiara upon his messy curls.

“Would you like to come inside?” She gestured toward the open door of her home, seemingly unworried about leaving her granddaughters under the supervision of his brother. With a short bow of his head, he’d agreed following her down the literal garden path toward her front door.

The interior of her home was surprisingly warm and inviting- a departure from the fashionably minimalist office she kept. Where stark whites and gleaming chromes dominated her workspace; here in her home dark woods and burgundies surrounded them like a well-aged oak cask.

Her home was furnished in deep antique hardwoods, heirlooms naturally; every surface seemed covered with framed photographs to gifted trinkets- evidence of ties, many and deep. People who cared about her, people she cared about in return.

It was oddly similar to his own family’s home- a repository for their lives, but for another family, another set of remarkably similar (yet completely disparate) lives.

There was an unfamiliar feeling building inside him as she guided him through her home to a kitchen where a kettle had just begun whistling.

“I was just making tea. Would you care for some?” She lifted the kettle from the burner, placed it in a cozy, he only nodded in assent, still unpacking this curious… feeling thing.

The Germans, being the very practical people that they are, had of course come up with a word for the thoughts that were building inside Mycroft’s expansive mind- Sonder: The realization that the lives of others are equally complex as one’s own.

Mycroft was not one to contemplate the lives of those who were not himself or his own flesh and blood. With all the mayhem he’d faced it did not seem likely, or relevant, that there might be others with whom to relate.

His family’s home was itself filled with photographs, heirlooms and useless knickknacks accumulated over generations, but it also contained so much negative space. There were no grandchildren, no nieces and nephews, no cousins or friendly neighbors. Just four survivors huddled around a vacuum left by a single missing person.

Being inside her home felt a bit like being inside her universe, a universe that could have been. It almost felt like a glimpse of what things would have been like for the Holmes if they had been different, not shaped entirely by a singular trauma.

Not to decry the exceptional accomplishments of Alicia Smallwood, he admonished himself. She is no goldfish, he was certain of that by now. She, like him, knew what it meant to have one’s entire world toppled over a single cruel truth.

He was lost in thought while she filled in the silence with the full tale of her recent bureaucratic woes. It was all the usual government game really: long holds, unhelpful receptionists, elusive office hours; common, but insufferable all the same.

Her hands were busy as she spoke, preparing tea for them both without asking how he preferred to take it. He quirked a curious brow as she scooped loose sugar into his cup, that in itself was unexpected, but upon further inspection, there seemed to be some sort of dried herb mixed within.

“Honey crystals.” She said with an illuminating smile, answering his unasked question. “…blended with rose, I find it adds a special balance to black tea.” She slid the intricately painted China saucer across to him carefully, as it was laden with a matching filled cup.

“Well?” She asked as he took his first sip.

It was perfection. In one sip he was awash in the sense memory of honey for tea and lovingly attended rose bushes among funny little crumbling graves; Back when they were whole, untainted by the harsher realities of the genetic lottery. Or rather, the first in a pattern of failures to correctly acknowledge the danger his baby sister was, and perhaps still is.

“Delicious.” He pronounced, placing the half emptied cup back into its saucer. When he looks up at her, her face has brightened, lashes lowered daintily as she smiled at him.

“Reminds me of growing up in the country; or rather one especially romantic idea of life in the country” She explained. “When I was young it felt like a muddy prison of boredom, I couldn’t wait to leave for school in London. But now, looking back, it feels like it was all rose gardens and warm hearth.”

She laughed softly to herself, and Mycroft felt his face doing a funny thing- smiling, far wider than he thought himself capable, they were sharing the same thoughts, the same memories. He was picturing a 15 year old Alicia in a jumper and school socks staring up at the rafters of her bedroom. He wondered if she was picturing the same, only a portly and spotty version of him.

After tea had been drunk, Alicia guided him through her home toward the paintings mounted on the walls in the central corridor; they were far too large for the space. These paintings were meant to be mounted in the library of a sprawling manse, not displayed in the comfortable, yet efficient corridors of a maisonette.

One painting was a family portrait, and the other a portrait of a single subject, what both had in common was the face of a severe looking woman, somewhat younger in the painting where she is posed beside what must be her husband behind their two sons sat stiffly atop wooden chairs in front of their parents. In the second portrait she is far older, yet time had only increased the severity in her eyes.

“This is Lady Smallwood…” Alicia pronounced as if she were making an introduction. “…My late husband’s grandmother and the matriarch of his family. She lived into her nineties and held her title until she died. She was…” Alicia huffed out a sigh. “She was not fond of me. She’d made it clear from the start that she did not find me fit to be Lady Smallwood, and made that fact known to me every time I saw her. Oftentimes in the presence of my own children. She was a rotten, awful beast of a woman.”

Alicia looked off wistfully, her eyes going dewy with sad notions. “But then again, perhaps she was right after all.”

Mycroft’s brows creased at this. Her family did not have titles but it was not in any worse standing than the Smallwoods, and they were certainly in better standing than the Holmes. It must not be the quality of her birth the elder Lady Smallwood objected to in Alicia, it must have been something personal.

Although, he himself could not contrive what the old lady would have found so personally disagreeable about her granddaughter-in-law. Mycroft, himself, had always found her to be quite agreeable. The time he’d had her investigated notwithstanding. He shook himself out of his reverie long enough to nod along, actively showing he understood.

“My husband loved to tell the girls stories of his gran, how she was elegant and fair-minded. I knew her as an entirely different person, and the girls never knew her at all, but they associate her with fond memories of their grandfather who is now…” She sniffed.

“Anyway, I do not want to take that away from them, I thought if I told them that her portaits were going to be preserved by English Heritage it would let them continue to have their sweet ideas while getting these awful things out of my home.”

Mycroft nodded, she didn’t have to say anything more. He didn’t completely understand the depth of her anger toward the old woman but he understood wanting to get out of the shadow of dark memories.

Alicia touched him on the shoulder in thanks as she passed, leaving him to his work.

The practical matter of removing the paintings was problematic to say the least. The paintings really were far too large for this space, he wasn’t entirely certain how they’d had managed to get through the door in the first place.

The gilded frames were large and bulky, he would have to take exact measurements of their width and height. He needed a step stool, a tape measure and an assistant, and due to remarkable foresight, he had brought one.

Making his way back through the home toward the front garden lead Mycroft to a ghastly sight for there, precariously perched on a ridiculously small plastic chair in front of a matching table, sat the World’s only consulting detective allowing children to haphazardly apply makeup to his face. To Mycroft’s continued horror, his brother was still in the feather boa and sparkly plastic tiara from before, with the addition of a tiny tutu, barely large enough to circle his waist.

Maybe there was a genetic component to cross-dressing after all. Uncle Rudy would have been pleased to know.

“Sherlock, help me take some measurements.” The fact that he would be the one taking the actual measurements while Mycroft stood back and supervised was implicit in the demand.

“For the last time, Mycroft, It’s Princess Rainbow Sparkle.” Turning to face him fully.

“Dear God.” Head-on, the effect was… jarring. Sherlock blinked up at him with eyelids spattered in blue, his cheeks bore bright pink circles of rouge and an orangey-pink lipstick that trailed well outside the borders of his actual lips.

“Can we make you a princess?” The younger of the two girls, Ivy, inquired while her older sister attempted to wind Sherlock’s hair into foam rollers.

“No.” his answer was definitive giving no quarter to negotiation.

Nevertheless, Sherlock took the initiative to start one. “I think it would really make Alicia...:” he squinted as he searched for the word,  “happy.”

“Why would that matter?” at that moment Alicia stepped outside to attend to something in her garden. Quite without his meaning for them to, his eyes followed her as she moved.

From his periphery, he could see his brother’s face split in an incredulous grin to which his only defense was a sophomoric. “Shut up! Now would you please come help me with these paintings? It’s a job that requires two _men_.”

Emphasis on the final word was meant to serve as a reminder of what age his younger brother was expected to act, a fact of which he seemed to remain perpetually forgetful.

“Or…?” Sherlock countered, one finger in the air as if he were conducting an orchestra. “Is it a job that requires two princesses?”

“Please! Please!” The girls bellowed rhythmically, Sherlock adding his voice to the chorus of ‘pleases’ until it became clear that the path of least resistance lie in the direction of surrender.

He’d hardly been able to sigh “Fine” in assent before little hands were pushing his knees in the direction of the plastic chair opposite Sherlock’s.

Mycroft tried to recall his SERE training while the moppets fluttered around him, acting under the encouragement of his brother, adding glittery unguents of pigment to his face. He could visualize what they were doing. It was ghastly, to be sure.

Clearly it was passed time for him to brush up on his torture resistance techniques. The constant touching of his face, the unusual sensory input of unfamiliar textures applied to his skin was frustrating him beyond measure. But if he just closed his eyes and breathed slowly it would likely be over soon.

“More rouge!” Ivy proclaimed giving him another looking over. Zoey and Sherlock concurred as the little girl swiped a wide brush through a bright pink disc of powder and applied it to his cheeks.

He did his best, but his frustration reached its tipping point when Alicia stopped by to check on everyone’s general welfare and admire her granddaughters’ most recent forays in the cosmetic arts. Only to be taken by surprise at Mycroft’s clownish appearance and huff out a laugh that seemed to force its way out of it’s own volition.

She was joined by the others in a chorus of laughter while Mycroft remained stunned into silence by the confounding nature of this entire predicament.

When he came to his senses, he stood while unwinding the boa that had somehow found it’s way around his shoulders. “I came to help with your paintings. Not be mocked.”

Still laughing, Alicia gestured peacefully at him with open palms. “I’m sorry. It’s just your face is ridiculous!”

If Mycroft were in a more rational frame of mind in that moment, he would have noted the lack of malice or ill regard in her tone and expression, but well… the Ice Man seemed to have been a bit compromised.

Another beat and he felt more composed, “Thank you for the tea.” He pronounced coolly, there was something almost robotic about the gesture. “Someone from English heritage will contact you within the hour. Time to go, Sherlock.”

Sherlock seemed to realize the turn the moment had taken, and yet for some reason he seemed compelled to vie for its continuation. “No, no wait- Mycroft! We were going to make a sparkle palace.” He said as if that would sway him.

He continued his trek toward the car when Sherlock shouted “Mycroft, you’re walking across hot lava!” toward his back causing the girls to cry out their feigned worry in unison.

 

* * *

 

 

The back seat of the sleek, black town car was swollen with tense silence as his moppy haired brother pouted at him while he cleaned up his face with a towelette from a pack stowed in the centre console.

Mystifyingly, his brother had found the audacity to actually be disappointed in him. Sherlock. Disappointed in _him_.

The very notion was ludicrous on its face. And speaking of ludicrous faces... he’d already exhausted the tensile strength and cleansing solution of one towlette.

His brother did not speak, he only stared off into nothingness in his habitual fashion. His brows were set close as though he were chewing his thoughts to bits like an untrained puppy gnawing on the carpet.

Their makeup disappeared into a pile of drying wet wipes and they’d made it all the way back to home office before he’d gathered up his thoughts enough to actually address the implications of their aborted errand and who it was for.

The car came to a stop on the kerb, giving them both the chance to get out before he took the car down to the garage. On any other occasion Sherlock would have taken his leave the first moment he was able, their compulsory visit and the errand that resulted from it, was over. Brotherly interaction quota met.

This time he apparently elected to buck the norm, following Mycroft steadily all the way back into his office. Finally cornered behind his desk, he was at the mercy of his brother’s deductions.

Mycroft fixed his face with an expression of casual disinterest, preparing for the barrage of observations.

“Alicia is… awesome.”

Mycroft paused, awaiting a more compelling deduction. No? Half an hour of total silence and intense contemplation and that was the best he could come up with. The worlds greatest detective, everyone.

“And she likes you.” Okay, he didn’t have to say _that_ like it was such a surprise. Rude. People like him, have liked him… people liked him sometimes.

“And you like her. It’s obvious.”

“A: I do not recall inviting you in here. And B: I do not _like_ her…” At Sherlock’s look of disbelief he qualified, “She’s not my type.” before is brother could question what that even meant, he added, “Her life is… messy.”

He nodded, seeming to take in his superior reasoning, but instead acquiescence, he offered this little pearl of ‘wisdom’.

“Mycroft, messy is fun. My life is a complete mess-” Yes, easily one of the most self aware statements to be uttered by his little brother,  “and I _love_ it! Look, look at my hair. There’s gum in my hair!”

Dear Lord, will this lunacy ever end?

“I will not be pursuing Lady Smallwood. End of story.”

He said nothing in response as he made his leave, putting a pin in this conversation for the time being, making it known by his general demeanor that if this was indeed the end of the story, he could be trusted to provide an epilogue.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft was arranging his desk, packing away files he planned to look over at home and debating between sticking to his diet or taking an early cheat day when his mobile rang, English Heritage.

“Rupert, I trust the acquisition of those items we spoke about went along smoothly.”

“Quite.” the voice on the phone agreed, “I have to say, I’ve rarely dealt with such an amenable donor. I know we gave her a bit of a merry chase, so much backlog- you understand.”

“Yes. Of course.” His response was terse, his working day was coming to it’s formal closing and he’d rather not spend any more energy on inane calls while on his own time, if he could help it.

“I don’t know what you did for her but she was very grateful.”

“I just took a tour through her corridor.” He answered absently, locking his briefcase shut.

“... Is that a euphamism?”

“Good day, Rupert.” Mycroft sighed in annoyance before ringing off forcefully.

Taking his briefcase in hand he set off toward the door, pulling it open to find a familiar face on the other side.

“Lady Smallwood, if you’re here about the paintings, I assure you-”

“I want to ask you out to dinner.” She interrupted.

Mycroft blinked in surprise. “Really.” It wasn’t a question. Or was it? He wasn’t sure himself.

“I hope you’re not the sort of gentleman that has to ask the lady first.”

Truthfully, until a moment ago he would have sworn he was sure what sort of gentleman he was, but at this particular moment he had no idea. He only knew he hung on her next words.

“I’m a widow and a grandmother. I don’t muck about, does that bother you?”

“On the contrary.”

“So… dinner?”

“Please and thank you.”

Alicia smiled, causing him to smile in return. “It will be casual.” She stated making a quarter-turn “No need to wear make up.”

She winked before she walked away leaving him alone in the doorway with his foolish grin.

  


* * *

 

 

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Molly’s sleepy voice murmured against his chest. It was after midnight and she was starting to doze against him as they lay on the sofa watching some old episode of Big Brother when his mobile went off.

“It’s Mycroft” He said. That was answer enough for her.

They’d both come back from Sherrinford changed men. The only difference was Sherlock was ready to accept it. Had in fact, been ready for some time and the experiences (and revelations therein) galvanized it.

Mycroft however…

Old habits did indeed die hard.

After spending the day with his brother, bending over backward to get him to engage, he just didn’t have it in him for round two with the Ice Man.

His mobile eventually ceased its ringing but was followed moments later by a beep indicating he’d received a voicemail. It was a bizarre enough occurrence that he immediately reached for his phone, holding it to his ear to listen.

“I begrudgingly admit you may have been _moderately_ correct about Alicia. Although I’m not sure why she bothered to talk to me after… well after today.” Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice. “But thank you, brother mine.”

He saved the message before depositing his mobile on the end table beside him. One never knew when evidence of past rights would prove useful.

 

***Earlier that day***

 

Alicia found a smudge of lipstick on her wrist left behind after cleaning up her granddaughters’ tea party turned beauty salon. Inspecting each little dish she finally isolated the source.

The sounds of Zoey and Ivy’s laughter tittered in the background as she inspected it, a tiny saucer. Scrawled on the underside in orangey-pink lipstick were the words “If you ask, he will say yes”.

Her mind cast itself back to a stolen scene.

The Holmes brothers squatting on tiny plastic chairs meant for people a third their size, their knees bent near their chests. They looked like crickets with their long legs in black slacks. Mycroft was doing an impressive job of pretending he didn’t want to laugh at his brother’s emphatic gestures as he recounted tales of past cases.

When Zoey topped off his pretend cuppa he took a sip. He even pretended to blow on it, it was terribly endearing.

 

She held the tiny saucer against her chest and smiled. ‘Yes’, She thought. ‘It was worth a try.’

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, unbelievably fluffy. Not my usual thing (or my usual ship) but it was so perfect that I couldn't shake the comparison. If you braved through this with your teeth in tact, congratulations and thanks for reading!


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